


Dialysis

by VerySincerelyYours



Series: Blackout [1]
Category: Do No Harm (TV)
Genre: Blood, Graphic descriptions of injury, Guilt, M/M, Medical Procedures, Mental Rambles, Missing Scene, Needles, Restraints, Scared Ruben, Shock therapy equiptment, This is what happens when I procrastinate
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-04-05
Updated: 2017-04-05
Packaged: 2018-10-12 21:51:34
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,619
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10500162
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/VerySincerelyYours/pseuds/VerySincerelyYours
Summary: The missing scene between Ian slamming Ruben onto the exam table, and Jason tearing away his restraints.





	

**Author's Note:**

  * For [imadeyouapancake](https://archiveofourown.org/users/imadeyouapancake/gifts).



> This is the first of a three-part series for this fandom, based on the wondrous LMM Supercut of DNH by trick-please. The second and third fics will go up soon-ish, probably. Because apparently I have nothing better to do than write for this fandom. 
> 
> ... -kicks med school under blanket- Lovely.

Ruben is hyper aware of the thick rivets of blood dripping down from the puncture wound in his arm. Ian was no doctor, not even a _not-that-kind-of-doctor_ -doctor like Ruben himself, and when he’d used the needle…

Brutal. That was the only word Ruben could use to describe it. He’d had all kinds of needles before, from the thick catheter tube heads to the thin, prickly flu shots at school, and the pain of each could range from butterfly kiss to a twenty four or so hour muscle bruise. Ian broke his scale of needle pain. Literally, shattered it, because Ruben was fairly sure he’d pierced clean through multiple veins and arteries and scraped into his ligaments, sliced across the tendons that connected muscle to bone.

That was his left arm. The right one wasn’t so bad, since Ian had only had a smaller, thinner needle at his disposal, but between the both of them, Ruben was terrified. He was bleeding, badly - he could hear the steady _drip, drip, drip_ of his own blood on the concrete floor - and even if he could yell, no one would hear him down here. That’s why it had been a perfect place to contain Ian, and now, to ensure that Ruben was as alone as he could ever be, and frightened.

He didn’t know when Jason was going to come back. _If_ Jason was going to come back. It could just as easily be Ian who walked through that door, but Ruben thought he would only if he decided he wanted to have some more fun with him. Otherwise, what would be the point in leaving the message there, in Ruben’s blood, for Jason to see? He tried to be rational, but still he trembled, his entire body shuddering and twisting those needles, jostling them, making hot tears gather in the corners of his eyes, and stick his lashes into clumps.

He wanted Jason. Jason had to come back. Ruben needed him. Fuck, he needed him.

Ruben wanted to yell, even if it’d be fruitless - logic and rationality were difficult things to hang onto, okay? Without the gag, even if he didn’t yell his throat hoarse, he’d at least be able to cry without choking on his sobs, which in turn lead to hitching breaths and spasms and pain, even more pain. He couldn’t take this. He wasn’t like Ian, or Jason even, he wasn’t okay with pain, wasn’t tolerant _at all,_ and he was still bleeding, and the gag made breathing difficult, and he was trapped here, and Ian could be coming back.

Ian was angry, and knew where he was, and Ruben _meant_ what he’d said that morning. He was as good as dead.

There was nothing else he could think about. No science, drugs, mice, or beta antagonists that could drag his mind away from the utter torment of this situation. The anticipation was worse than the physical pain, but the physical pain was still horrific. When Ian had slammed him into the door earlier, it had aggravated the scrapes and bruises Ruben had given himself when he’d fallen down the stairs and cracked his knees on the hardwood flooring. The shakes were just getting worse, and he didn’t know whether to contribute the growing light-headedness to fear or blood loss.

But he’d done this for Jason. He knew the risks, had been so very apprehensive when they’d started, in the face of Ian’s cold and calculating dominance. His casual malice. They should have seen this coming.

Ruben curled his stiff fingers around the metal rails of the gurney, arching and wheezing when his forearm tensed as a result of the movement, and fought the urge to test the strength of the yellow dialysis tubing that immobilised him. He squeezed his eyes shut, trying to ride out the latest agonising wave, praying for it all to end _._

And suddenly, the door grinds open, heavy and metal and loud, and he thinks _shit;_ thinks _Ian_ ; thinks _I’m_ _dead, I’m dead, I’m dead-_

“Oh my god, Ruben!”

Ruben can’t help it. He cowers. Forget jostling the needles - it’s _Ian._ Ian’s back and he’s here and Ruben’s going to _die_ and it’s going to _hurt_ and he doesn’t want it to hurt anymore Jason was supposed to save him Ruben doesn’t want to break and spill their plans and their secrets but Ian knows and he’s back and it’s going to hurt oh God it’s going to-

“Ruben it’s me, it’s Jason.” The bandage that had been stuffed in his mouth is the first to be yanked away, and Ruben can breathe again, can let his tongue rest behind his teeth and swallow without feeling like he’s suffocating. The taught yellow tubes stop cutting into the soft skin of his cheek, gaining slack and hanging around his neck like jewellery. Ruben hears the man panting, watches him rushing, and sees the panic, pain and guilt in his eyes. “It’s Jason.”

It doesn’t register, at first. Ruben’s still twisted, the muscles in his arms tense and aching, because he needs to stay away, needs to run from those dangerous, deadly hands. Jason works with precision, uses his fingers to manipulate the smallest of cells and tissues, but Ian brings only devastation with each digit - harder and rougher; unapologetic. Ian would tear at and fail to remove the restraints. Jason is undoing them, untangling and unwinding without even watching his own hands, eyes instead fixed on Ruben’s face, and- _oh._

It _is_ Jason. Yeah. He can see it now. “Ruben; I’m _so sorry_.”

Ruben flinches, but his right hand is freed anyway, and he watches as Jason speeds around the gurney, focused and out of breath. But after that, Ruben’s eyes are drawn to the one thing he’d tried so desperately not to look at up until now. Jason follows his gaze, and those talented hands still, the words ‘I KNOW’ burning across the backs of their eyelids.

Ruben’s left hand is trembling.

“Ruben - _Ruben,_ look at me.” _He’d tilt my face himself_ , Ruben thinks, _if he weren’t preoccupied._ It takes a few long moments - Jason has to repeat the order another two times - before Ruben manages to tear his wide, teary eyes away, focusing instead on Jason’s face and all the things that made it different to Ian’s. There were no deep, hard lines in his forehead, no steely set to his eyes, and a worried curve to his mouth. It was Jason. Definitely Jason. Ian could return at any minute, but for _now,_ it was Jason. “I’m going to fix your arms, okay? I’m going to fix your arms and then we’re going to figure this out. Just… just keep your eyes on me.”

Those steady hands - so still and unmoving next to Ruben’s own violently trembling one - undid the last of the restraints, and were then holding his forearm tightly, keeping the whole limb beautifully, blessedly still. It didn’t stop the pain, but it lessened it significantly, since the needle finally stayed in the one place. Ruben wanted to reach over with his other hand and clutch at Jason’s jacket sleeve, but he didn’t dare move.

Those steady hands were now a flurry of movement, pressing white gauze to his arm and removing the needle in one smooth slide. Ruben thought, rationally, that no one could have done it better, could have minimised the pain quite so well, but he still couldn’t stop his own groan, which morphed into a startled whimper when Jason put a firm pressure on the puncture wound.

The look Jason cast up at him was dripping with remorse, but words seemed to get caught in his throat, before he started moping away the blood on Ruben’s arm with saline and helpless outrage once again burst forth. “I told you, Ruben, I said no face to face contact- we had a _plan,_ goddamn it, how did this even _happen_!?”

Ruben expected those hands to get harsher with barely repressed anger, but they didn’t. He hadn’t known Jason to have good emotional control before now, but he _was_ a surgeon. Ruben must have just underestimated him.

He’d already proven that this was Jason, without a shadow of a doubt, so why was his heart still pounding? “There w-w-was-” he swallows, thickly, trying to make his voice louder than a whisper, too frightened to meet Jason’s gaze, not when he knew what he’d see there. Disappointment. Always disappointment. “H-he… t-the n-n-need-dle… t-took it-t o-o-out…”

Jason seemed to hesitate, glancing down at the bandage wrapped tightly around his own elbow, the small red patch in the centre from where the blood had leaked through. Ruben watched from under his eyelashes as Jason put the pieces together, and then pulled in a deep breath and went back to staunching the blood flow from his arm. It stung, but Jason was surprisingly gentle. He kept clenching his jaw and swallowing, and Ruben took it as a sign to keep his own mouth shut, letting Jason go and do… whatever it was he was trying to do to Ruben’s arm. Check for breaks, or something. Clean it and bandage it tightly enough to make the fingers of Ruben’s left hand tingle.

“Alright. Alright. You gotta calm down.” Jason moves around the gurney and slips out the second needle while Ruben winces, bandaging it in a fraction of the time it had taken to treat the other one. He finishes and then rests one hand on Ruben’s shoulder, leaving the other on his forearm and squeezing both gently. Ruben didn’t expect to feel grounded, but he does. His heart is still beating like a hummingbird and he’s shaking all over, but it’s better now.

Pulling Ruben upright and to the edge of the gurney, Jason tries to meet his eyes and exaggerates his slow breathing, giving Ruben something to mimic.

Ruben tries, _really_ tries, is sure that he’s well and truly testing the bounds of Jason’s patience, but Jason doesn’t say anything when one minute ticks by, and then two, and finally Ruben is managing long, slow, wavering breaths. Everything smells like blood and tears and musty air. Jason’s eyes are this clear grey-blue colour, solid and steady and much clearer than Ruben’s own damp ones. The room is strangely still, and Jason smiles at him, and Ruben forces himself to glance away and forget how empty he feels now that Jason has given his arm and shoulder a gentle squeeze and let go.

They’ve got bigger things to worry about. Like Ian. Like the writing on the wall. Ruben isn’t so important.

“Okay- better, huh?” Jason’s voice sounds forced, like the optimism is there only for Ruben’s benefit. “We finished the dialysis, so the toxins have gotta be out of my blood by now. We’ve got to fix my brain next. Get me back to normal. There’s shock therapy equipment in storage next door.”

It takes Ruben a second, maybe two, for his brain to process, and then his eyes are widening and he’s half sure that he might just drop like a rock, his head light from blood loss, hand still shaking as he fumbles for some part of Jason to hold on to. “Wha- n-no, no no, no w-we no-”

Jason doesn’t listen. When does he, really? Ruben wanted to pass out, just to spite the guy. Instead, he stutters uselessly, and Jason is a flurry of motion - single minded and on a mission. He doesn’t even stop to acknowledge Ruben again until making a bee-line for the door, and Ruben shoots up so fast he thinks he might just take himself up on that whole passing out thing after all. He doesn’t expect Jason to duck back and catch his arm, to keep him upright when he’s obviously so much of a hindrance and a burden to the- the _mission_ at hand.

The placating - “Woah, woah…” - he hears doesn’t slow his racing heart any, but at least now Ruben can hold tight to Jason’s sleeve and keep him there, trying not to feel small in the face of Jason’s expression of confusion, frustration and desperation. And… concern? Maybe?

“Y-you can’t l-l-leave, d-don’t- w-what if Ian…”

Ruben watches Jason’s face harden with understanding, crinkle up as he tries to sort through the possibilities. _At least he’s listening_ , Ruben thinks, near hysterically. _He’s listening. He’s listening_. “Okay, so I can’t… I could stay here. You could get the equipment. You know where it is, and if you come back and I’m not me, the door will be bolted- I know he sounds like me but, but if we have a code-word, or-”

Ruben shakes his head frantically, side to side as the world spins, keeling forward and _breathing_ , thickly and shallowly as Jason keeps him upright, is the only thing keeping him upright. He hurts all over, and the thought of administering shock therapy - on _anyone,_ but especially Jason - makes him want to throw up almost as much as the blood loss does.

“Breathe, c’mon, _c’mon Ruben!_ Alright, alright _fine._ ” Ruben feels himself jolt, biting back on the moan that wants to break out of his throat, and then Jason is close to him, pressed up along his side as he slings one of Ruben’s arms over his broad shoulders. This is a bad idea, is a _really bad idea, what is Jason thinking,_ but Ruben doesn’t have it in him to protest. He’s weak, and Jason is warm and steady and _so damn close,_ and if Ian appears now Ruben thinks he might burst into tears.

They walk - stumble - out of the lock up room, leaving it open behind them as Jason focuses on supporting Ruben’s weight and assuring him that everything is going to be okay. Ruben doesn’t really believe him, but the sentiment is nice, and the steady stream of white noise is enough to distract him from how badly he wants to curl up and sleep.

When they finally get there, Ruben forces himself to step away from Jason, wavering on his feet for a moment, but staying upright. He watches as Jason gathers equipment, talking to himself as he grabs and yanks and hefts. He doesn’t ask Ruben to help, only huffs out a breathless - “Are you alright to walk back?” - to which Ruben can only nod. He staggers trying to keep up, knowing why Jason is rushing. Ian could be back at any moment, and he’ll be angry, and Ruben’s dead, he’s _dead._

They make it back to the lock up room in record time, and Ruben forces himself out of his state of shock to help Jason untangle and orientate the equipment, praying that his shaking hands don’t get in the way. Quick - _quick like a bunny, Connie_ \- because Ian, Ian, Ian, _Ian, Ian, Ian-_

He doesn’t want to, God knows he doesn’t, but before he knows it Jason is sitting back on that chair, and the equipment is flashing green, ready and waiting, and Jason points at the button and Ruben _knows_ what it is, what it does, how to use this… this torture device. Nowhere in his contract was the mandate to torture a _friend,_ but everything he’d ever done for Jason had always been outside of protocol, _against the rules._

That’s what Jason was - one giant exception to every rule. Ruben’s fingers tingled, feeling cold and bereft of blood, and he focused on lingering aches and pains in an effort to detach himself from what he was doing; from what Jason was _forcing_ him to do. He doesn’t want to. He doesn’t want to. He doesn’t want to. _He doesn’t want to._

He’s always been so bad at saying no to Jason.


End file.
